The Changes of War
by Requiem517
Summary: A memorial for those who died in the war is put up at Hogwarts. Harry presents it, gives a speech, and gives out prezzies. Oneshot.


Back again. This one's alright, it sort of made me a bit sad. I wrote it for points at an lj community I'm at... soooo yeah.

**Disclaimer:** not mine, unfortunately.

* * *

With eyes glinting full of malice, Harry gripped his battered wand. "Avada Kedavra!" Loud and clear those two words rang, covering the battlefield in a cloud of disbelief. Death Eaters stopped their attacks, clutching their forearms and howling with pain. Various members of the Order wiped their sweaty brows, and quickly bound their enemies tightly. A blanket of calm surrounded those who still managed to grasp feebly at a heartbeat, as all eyes turned to the Boy-Who-Lived. They watched, fascinated, as in slow motion, he collapsed out of exhaustion.

Voldemort was dead.

—

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was bursting with people. Ministry officials, reporters, creatures, friends, teachers, classmates. The memorial, (or Funeral, as they were calling it in the _Daily Prophet_), was meant to be a private one – but it seemed as though everybody overlooked that fact.

Ironically enough, it was one of those days, where, your whole afternoon was ruined because of that tiny wisp of cloud in the clear blue sky. The heat of the sun beat down on people's backs, mixing in with their apprehension and impatience. Bugs were buzzing about, reveling in the humidity, and lapping up the sweet nectar from an old man's nose, or a young girls ankle.

Hermione Granger stood under the towering oak tree located next to the lake, taking in the sweet silence of the moment. There were too many people. Too many onlookers, come to ogle at 'Hero Harry Potter' – they didn't care about the dead. _But it was their war, too. _She argued with herself. _Haven't they got a right to be here? The nosy gits._

War changes people. The once sweet disposition of the brunette muggleborn was gone. Instead, there was a shrewd, suspicious, and even sometimes a crude girl, that had taken it's place. But she wasn't the only one.

Ronald Weasley was no longer an immature, temperamental, sixteen year old boy. He was an eighteen year old _man _– with a worn look about him. He no longer got into arguments with Dean Thomas over soccer – because Dean was dead.

Her hexes were respected in Hogwarts, but now, after all she had seen and done, Ginny Weasley's wand-work was legendary. She was feared, and known for taking out more Death Eater's than Aurors who had been in their line of duty for years. Care-free and light-hearted couldn't be used to describe her anymore.

But possibly the most changed out of all, was Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Vanquished-Voldemort. Confused and emotional were what people used to describe his adolescent years, but eerily calm and cool was what he now held in high regards. Almost as if he was an animated corpse – just barely grasping onto consciousness. Sparkling emerald eyes that shone behind broken glasses were now dull and lifeless; unruly hair now laid flat.

War changes people.

—

"Thank you all for coming," spoke Pomona Sprout slowly. She was standing on a raised platform, next to a large statue covered with a sheet. "It has indeed been a long, hard road, but this is the end. We are now here to honour our deceased, who, with great valor, gave their lives in the line of duty."

The audience clapped politely.

"I would now like to call Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley to the stage, for a few words."

The audience clapped politely.

"Hello," said Hermione carefully. "There isn't much that I'd like to say – because what _can_ one say, to make everything better? The answer is: nothing. The whole Wizarding world has been at war for many, many years. It might seem strange, trying to settle back into an old life, without the shadow of a great evil looming over our heads. Embrace it, folks. Embrace it, and know that for once, you can go to sleep safely." Hermione stepped back, and let Ron take the front.

"Like Hermione said," Ron gestured behind him. "There's no easy way to go about doing this, but if we work together, we can rebuild our world. It breaks my heart, to stand up here, knowing that some of us will never see what a great thing we've accomplished, but you know what? We cannot dwell on those who have gone before their time. Focus on now. Focus on your new lives. Walk the streets freely." With a bow, the redhead grabbed his friend's hand, and together they left the stage.

The audience rustled, and murmurs of "where's Harry?" were heard.

Pomona cleared her throat. "The time is now," said she.

And the Hero of all the world walked forth.

—

"It is a great burden to bear," he began. "At fifteen years old, learning that you, and _only _you, can defeat the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. But you know, I wouldn't have even made it _that_ far, without the help of my two best friends. No, I can't even call them my best friends. Ron and Hermione are so much more than that. They're my soul mates. At school, we were often called the "Golden Trio", and we used to scoff at it – but really, was it so wrong?

"We _were _Golden. With them, I shone. I wasn't that lost little boy with no family; I was strong, and proud, and _home_. They were – _are _my rock. I realize I'm forgetting someone, here. Don't feel left out, Ginny. You've been patient with all of us for years; even when we left you out. I never saw how wonderful you really were until sixth year – but what's in the past is in the past.

"All that I'm really trying to say, is, you three are the missing pieces to my soul. Voldemort would probably be the supreme ruler right now, if you guys weren't in my life. So, before we reveal the memorial, I'd like to give you a gift. It could never make up for what you've been through for me, but it's all I've got.

"I know arguing about the Cannons has lost some of it's vigor since Dean is gone, Ron, but for you, there's an open Keeper position. I talked to their manager, and he said he'd be _honoured_ to let you try out for the spot. If there's a slight chance you don't make it–" Harry grinned, "there's always Hermione for the old standby – a Confundus charm, eh?" He heard his muggleborn friend snicker from her spot directly in front of the stage.

"For Ginny, I've found out from a source, that they're looking for Unspeakables with specialties in hex and curses. It's your turn to leave _us_ in the dark for once. And also, if you'd let me, I'd like another shot at happiness?" Ginny just grinned at him from next to Hermione, and gave him the thumbs up.

"And finally, for Hermione, my dearest friend. I remember you once expressed to me how you'd love Madam Pince, the Librarian's, job, but I think I've found something even better."

"What could be better than that?" Asked Hermione, appalled.

"How about Headmistress?"

"At eighteen!" Hermione gasped.

Harry just nodded. "Now," he said, with a voice more saddened, "I think it's high time these fine people get the respect that they deserve." Grasping the sheet that was billowing in the wind, Harry gave a hard tug and let it fall.

Revealed was a statue, about as tall as Hagrid once was. A lion, snake, badger, and eagle were resting against one another peacefully, with a wizard standing in the middle. Albus Dumbledore.

Taking a deep breath, Harry began reading off the names. "Rubeus Hagrid, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Filius Flitwick, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Padma Patil, Charlie Weasley, Percy Weasley..."

—

"It's so different now," Ginny whispered to Harry one evening, three years later. They were standing in front of the statue, mourning their lost friends, like they resolved to do every year.

"I know," Harry said.

"Nothing will ever be like it once was, will it? We're all still hurting. Will the world find it's peace?"

"It comes and it goes, Ginny. Just be patient."

"But Harry, it's just not fair! Why shouldn't _they_ get to see the fruits of their labour? Why us? Why!"

"You're asking me things I just can't answer, but I will tell you this: these people... they just aren't names on some silly plaque. They're a memory – and it's our duty to uphold that memory. These are the people that are more important than you and I, because they're martyrs, Ginny. They died for what they believed in, and what did we do? We lived. Why? Perhaps the fates have some other plan in store for us. Who knows? But until we _do_ die, we have to remember.

"When you hear the wind echoing on the distant horizon, just imagine it's Severus yelling at Neville for exploding _another_ potion. When the rain beats down on the roof above our heads, just think about Minerva and how she always used to clink her spoon against a glass to get our attention.

"But most of all, when you see that the sky is still blue, and that the grass is still green, _know _that it's that way because of the dead. It was them, Ginny. _They're _the true heroes. We're just lucky."

"You're right."

"No, I'm Harry."

Ginny laughed and swatted her husbands arm. "Prat."

As the pair walked up towards the school, the sun shone just a little bit brighter.


End file.
